Red vs Blue: Washington's Collapse
by Brovenger
Summary: Wash has had enough of Epsilon, he just wants the AI out of his head. He ignores Ep's warning that it will make things worse, and perhaps for once he should have listened to that little voice in his cranium.


**A/N: Another Washington fic, because I so enjoy writing about his suffering. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. :D

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_Alpha Alpha Alpha Alpha Alpha Alpha!_

He grunts, his grip on the pencil in hand tightening. "Shut up," he commands.

_No, can't. Alpha. We must find Alpha- save Alpha._

"No, we don't, shut the fuck up."

_Alpha! Alpha, we must- Alpha- we have to save-_

"There is no Alpha! You're fucking insane, shut the fuck up, Epsilon!" he yells. The pencil breaks in his hand, a sharp _snap_ echoing throughout the darkened room. He regrets it immediately, a memory flashes through his mind.

Memory. Not his. Pain. Screaming. No, not his own. Friends, dying. A girl. Red hair. No, that's not her. A gun, firing. The bullet, meeting flesh. More pain. Not real. Stop.

_We must get justice for Alpha!_

Okay, right. Justice, whatever.

Another flash.

Oh god, not again.

This time, cold air. A floor, metal slates. A puddle of red, snaking its way beneath his body. A figure, looming above. A smile, teeth exposed, lips curved upwards. A boot, pressing on his chest. Can't breathe. Hurts. Broken ribs? Probably. Collapsed lung? Maybe. Internal bleeding? Most likely.

A voice, talking. Can't hear, everything's muddled. What's he saying? Listen, hard, careful. Not difficult. That's a lie. A cry of pain, his own. Tears, makes vision worse. Crying? Pathetic. Fucking ingrate. Vibrations, person still talking. Gloating? Definitely. Did he win? Seems like it.

He gasps, hand grabbing the lip of the desk. He tries to pull himself up- out. Out of the memory that isn't his. The dream, the hallucination. Was that it? Just a hallucination? Was he just seeing things? The pain in his head is real, that much he knows. So is the screaming.

_ALPHA, ALPHA. LOOK, YOU SEE? See what they did? We must help!_

"Go fuck yourself," he breathes. He tries to stand, another wave of images hit him. All of them incoherent, not making sense. Emotions; running wild, insane. His feet stop working, his legs follow suit. He falls to the floor again, yelping. He feels his own amusement at the irony; the only carpet he'd gone down on in months. He blinks, trying to clear his vision as that goddamned thing keeps wailing. He can see his own hand as he tries to push himself up. It feels oddly detached.

_We must destroy them_! _Make them pay for what they did!_

Yeah, okay, make them pay. Great, he could do that. Are you happy now? Will you stop? I agree with you, I'll help- just stop it.

"Get out of my head," he groans, curling up at the end of his bed. He lies still on the floor.

_No._

"Yes."

_No- I can't. Not my decision._

"I don't fucking care- just leave me alone!"

Silence. Oh god, sweet motherfucking silence. Then, finally;

_It will be much worse…_ softly spoken, almost a whisper.

"No, no it won't," he argues.

_Yes, it will._

"I don't believe you."

The pain starts immediately.

He should have believed him.

He screams, he can't hold it in.

His head, oh _**god**_ his fucking head! He cries out again, hands curling in his hair. His fingers dig into his scalp, but he barely feels his nails against the tender skin. His awareness slips, gone. He opens his eyes, looks around. Doesn't retain anything. Where is he? Why's he on the floor?

Who is he?

Names, people, faces; they surface in his mind. An entire list of them;

Epsilon

Detla

Omega

Church

Director

Councilor

David

Maine

Dakota

Another memory breaks the cycle. A room, dark. A man behind a desk, staring over at him. Gray hair, glasses. Blue eyes. He's speaking. What's he saying? Fucking listen!

"_Your codename shall be Washington. Welcome to Project Freelancer, Agent Washington." _

Freelancer? The fuck is that? Sounds like a shitty band.

He grinds his teeth, doubled over. His face is in the carpet, it smells like beer. Stale beer. He vomits, it ads to the stench. He tries to sit up, his head bursts into a flurry of activity again. He panics, the disorientation starting to get to him.

Memories, one after the other. Constant. Were some of them his? Had to be. But the others? He didn't know. How couldn't he know? What the hell had happened to him?

A door opens, he looks up. Across the room, a woman. She starts speaking, then stops short. She frowns, looks down at him. Pretty, he decides. Brown hair, green eye shadow. Nice tits.

She walks over to him, squats in front of him. She's talking again. He doesn't understand the words; they're just useless noise. He feels her hands on his face, she looks like she's starting to worry.

What's her name? He tries to think. He assumes he knows this woman, so he should know her name. A word surfaces in his mind, and he grins.

"Allison…" he mumbles. He passes out, falling forward into the female in front of him. He's content, for now. The pain has stopped, and that's all he cares about. He's oblivious to anything but the sweet escape he's sunk into. He's too far gone to notice the hurt in the woman's voice, speaking next to his ear. He's too distant to understand that he just severed the last friendship he had.

He doesn't realize until he wakes up days later, strapped to a bed, that he's all alone.


End file.
